By: Blonde Two
For the next three days, the Two Blondes and their troupe of Gold DofErs will be Exploring-on-a-Different-Moor. I think this has quite a poetic ring to it and is almost certainly a metaphor for breaking out of the mould and trying something new. Or it might not be, there is a chance of course, that it is a euphemism (I love spelling that word) for something that I shouldn’t mention to the kids.
Exmoor, as places go, isn’t really that far away from Dartmoor but once you are there, it feels as alien to a Dartmoor Blonde as if they were Exploring-on-a-Different-Planet. Please don’t mistake my meaning, Exmoor is very lovely but it is not the same. The valleys are steeper, the sea is right next door and the hedges are a lot more organised. I should perhaps, qualify this last statement; Dartmoor has chaotic, multi-plant hedges sat atop on banks and completely impenetrable. Exmoor has neatly arranged beech hedges which are trimmed and allow you to see the view through them. There are so many of them that I wouldn’t be surprised to find a by-law that makes the use of any other plant for hedging illegal.
I am looking forward to telling you about some of our Exmoor adventures (hopefully with some pictures) so watch this space … that is, of course, if the local stag hounds don’t get me first!
It’s Herefordshire for hedges – and for draconian hedge laws. Way away from urban centres, smoothly cut hedges turn narrow lanes into impenetrable troughs; for self-protection it’s better to drive along them at night rather than day, with headlights providing some sort of warning.
One gets the feeling that some hedges are so thick, so substantial, so menacing they’ve been there since Domesday Book. And never 100 yards of straight in ten miles.
Certainly the attitude towards them is feudal. A farmer, worried about emerging in his tractor from one of his fields blind to oncoming traffic, chops off a yard or or two hedge to ease his mind. Immediately he is shopped, perhaps by hedge-trolls bred for purpose and living in nearby burrows. The courts force the farmer to reinstate the chopped-off bit at great cost. The Highways Agency inspects, agrees about the safety issue and decrees that the wider gap be re-established. The farmer stands there bemused, a victim of history.
All Herefordshire’s energy has gone into hedges which means its so-called moors are XXXX-poor. For me as an off-comed-‘un it’s an uneasy trade. I’d say Dartmoor has some competitors but they’re much further north. Mind you, detail counts. I know it’s heretical but certain parts of Dartmoor looked manicured to me. Are we still friends?
Obviously still friends and Dartmoor is of course manicured but only really by sheep and ponies. Every now and again someone burns some of it to clear the grazing but mostly it is left alone. I feel for your Herefordshire farmer and I particularly like tractors!